Disclaimer: I don't own the characters you recognize; they belong to Nicolas Falacci and Cheryl Heuton.


UCLA Medical Center
Floor 3
Tuesday, August 3
1930 Hours PST

Don Eppes never saw the punch coming.

He'd been leaning against the door frame of Room 348 at the UCLA Medical Center, his forehead resting against his forearm. God, it was a long day. Don was exhausted, physically and mentally. The arm that wasn't supporting his body weight on the door frame was in a sling, a consequence of a struggle with the perp that he hadn't bothered to seek medical attention for.

Worth it? Don thought. Sonofabitch is lucky he's not dead.

He'd been tempted. Lucky for the suspect, the dislocated shoulder had prevented him from exerting the right amount of pressure on his windpipe. Otherwise…

"Don?"

Don froze at the sound of the voice. Oh, hell. There was no longer delaying the inevitable. He pushed off the doorframe, turned-

And the fist connected smartly with his cheekbone. Don didn't even have time to brace himself, the impact sent him back against the doorframe. His back cracked the edge of it, but the Kevlar he was still wearing took the brunt of it. He blinked several times, partly from the pain, and partly from sheer disbelief. What the…he actually hit me!?

Any other day, FBI Special Agent Don Eppes would've been prouder than hell of his little brother for throwing a punch like that, and would've told him so.

But today, as Professor Charlie Eppes shook out his hand, glaring at him in anger, confusion, and hurt, Don didn't say anything. Because he deserved that hit.

The nurse was on the phone with hospital security. Don held up a hand and shook his head. "No. It's okay," he told her. "Don't call 'em. This is my brother." He looked at Charlie. "You wanna hit me again, we'll go outside. Knock it off up here, all right?"

Charlie ran a hand down his face as he paced in front of his brother. "Is he okay?" he demanded. "Just tell me he's okay."

Don nodded. "He'll be okay, Chuck," he assured his brother softly. "Dad's fine."

Charlie pushed past him into the room, as if he didn't believe his older brother and needed to see for himself. Don stayed out in the hall.

Alan Eppes lay in the hospital bed. An IV was hooked up pumping fluids into his arm, and Charlie could see a couple butterfly bandages holding a couple cuts together on his face. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling softly under the thin hospital blanket. He reached out tentatively, took their father's hand, his brown eyes drifting to the ugly mottled purple on his wrist.

Don heard his brother suck in a breath, and wanted nothing more than to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, something, anything, but before he could, his brother spoke. He never looked away from their father. His tone was clipped, one Don imagined he used with his classroom management at CalSci, but his voice broke when he asked the question:

"How in the hell did you let this happen?"